[Kylo considers. It's a slow, unhurried process, the mechanism turning visibly behind his dark, steady gaze. He leaves a broad hand steadying the handle of the axe while the other lifts, reaches, cradles the side of Kavinsky's pale face then tips it up by the chin for inspection.
His thumb could slide over the soft curve of his lips, from here. It doesn't. Yet.]
What kind of message would I be sending if I kissed you right now, Joseph?
[It's a low, deceptively mild murmur. Perhaps the most dangerous kind.]
no subject
His thumb could slide over the soft curve of his lips, from here. It doesn't. Yet.]
What kind of message would I be sending if I kissed you right now, Joseph?
[It's a low, deceptively mild murmur. Perhaps the most dangerous kind.]